


Locked Out of Heaven

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 04, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-29 00:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: This is not how this was supposed to go.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 16
Kudos: 226





	Locked Out of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary) and [Hircine_Taoist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hircine_Taoist/pseuds/Hircine_Taoist) for their beta help!

This is not how this was supposed to go.

She is not supposed to be in her house. She is not supposed to be in the bath when he arrives, makeup scrubbed, hair stringy with stale sweat she still hasn’t washed away, shivering with her arms around her knees because she’s been in here too long and the water has gone cold.

She’s not supposed to have a bit of a rash on her chin from face cream that suddenly decided it doesn’t like her; she’s not supposed to be a little bloated off excessively greasy burgers and hormones.

She is not supposed to have a headache.

There is a knock at her bathroom door, and she _ knows _ it’s him not because the push and pull has gotten too strong, or because she can smell the sandalwood of him, or even because he’s the only one who can get through her front door without a key.

She knows because she asked him, her phone blinking with texts on the toilet lid. Because it’s been a long goddamn day, and everything still feels like it’s falling apart even though he’s been back for months—_but for how much longer?_—and she just wanted to see him.

Maybe she just wanted him to see her. All of her.

_ If you saw all of me, knew all of me... you’d run away. _

But she doesn’t have another face where she holds all her sins and hurt. Nothing much changed in her skin during the years he was gone—not so many but still _ too _ many—except the wrinkles on her face, the tightness in her skin. When she looks in the mirror, she can only see her weariness; she can’t see all her pain.

She’s only human, after all.

“Detective?” he asks softly. “Chloe?”

Her name still sounds wrong when he says it, like her title is more important. Like she is some angel ordained by God, and her purpose is justice. Is judgement. But she hasn’t got wings, hasn’t got some divine purpose. She’s only got a piece of metal and faith in a system she’s not sure she should believe in.

There’s something like hope caught in her throat, and she doesn’t answer him. Can’t. And he is so careful, not opening the door, merely tapping out a message on his phone.

_ Detective, may I come in? _

Her choices are splayed out before her, and she feels like she imagines Eve might have in the garden, being offered a fruit, being offered...

She makes her choice with a touch to a screen, the door swings open, and she is even colder than before. But then it shuts, and there is an otherworldly heat, now, in her practical, functional bathroom.

He looks so out of place in his suit among her dirty clothes lying in piles on the floor, his body caught between the slightly musty towel hanging from the back of the door and the plastic counters just a little grimy with toothpaste.

But he never looks at her like she’s lesser.

He’s not looking at her at all, now, though he’s not shielding his eyes or turning away in shame, simply very steadfastly watching a spot near her but not actually on her. An idle thought slips through her head that Hell is a strange place to learn modesty. But maybe this is more that he understands something of where her boundaries lie and doesn’t want to push.

He used to push. She almost misses it.

“Lucifer,” she says, in a tone more aching than seductive, but it accomplishes what she wanted, and his gaze locks onto her face. And it’s hard to feel gross or insecure or even _ human _ with his eyes on her. He’s never looked at her like she was ordinary.

She desperately wants him to.

She stands, and the water drips from the wet edges of her hair, from her soaked hips and ass and thighs. From the curls between her legs. She wants him to see the circles under her eyes and the scar on her shoulder and the stretch marks painting her belly.

He watches her, and he does not speak.

This is not quite insecurity, not quite vanity, not quite anything that has a name. She knows she is beautiful, and she knows her worth is not because of that. She does not think she has to be perfect for a man, or an angel, or a god.

But some part of her wants him to be perfect for her.

And it’s not fair, but nothing is. And a man died today, and it’s not her fault, but isn’t it? Didn’t sin come into the world when an angel offered a mortal something she didn’t know how to know? And she does know, now. Knows that guilt drags souls into darkness, and the light sometimes seems so far away. She told him he had to forgive himself, all those years ago, but how is she supposed to do the same?

She doesn’t have a grand narrative, a storied rebellion, a great fall. She doesn’t have flesh peeled from her bones or desolation burned into her skin. She only had her little human failures. When she fell, nothing broke but a camera lens.

“Detective, are you...?” But he trails off, and there is silence again, broken only by the drops of cold water that fall back into the bath.

She wants more from him than the tumult in his eyes. She needs more from him than the care with which he’s been handling her, like she’s liable to shatter. And there _ is _something inside her that is broken, that maybe can never be fixed, but she doesn’t need his goddamn pity.

She steps out of the bath onto the mat, water splashing out with her, like some poor imitation of the flood that reshaped the world. But maybe if she has faith—and what a thing is faith when she knows there are angels and demons, God and Devil, but doesn’t know her own feelings—she’ll be washed more clean than her porcelain tub ever could.

She doesn’t grab a towel, just walks forward feeling like she’s marching into battle, or maybe to the gallows, and she knows there is surprise on his face when she goes to her knees, though her eyes are closed.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice suddenly hoarse. She wonders if this is fulfilling some fantasy of his. She wonders if he’s begun to believe this would never happen at all. They have spent so long dancing around each other, but she’s never been much of a dancer.

“Please,” she whispers, and something in her rebels at pleading, at supplicating, at _ begging, _ but the greater part of her knows that this is what she desires. That she might kneel before his altar and find repentance.

But he is still hesitant, even when she presses her sweaty forehead to his clothed thigh, even when she reaches up with damp fingers to unbuckle his belt. The sound of leather sliding over metal is loud over his suddenly shaky breathing, but she goes no further, taking his hand in hers, sliding it over her cheek. She can feel the cool metal of his ring bite into her skin, and she presses into the contact.

But this has to come from him, and so she waits, waits for him to understand her desire as he understands everyone else’s. She’ll wait as long as he needs, she tells herself, but she knows one day she won’t be able to wait any longer, whether in a grave or in another’s arms or simply in her own sealed off heart, not willing to bear the pain for another moment.

But he is merciful, or covetous, or maybe virtue and sin are the same, in the end, and he wakes against her beseeching hands, stroking the hair from her face as he unbuttons his pants. The fabric slides to the floor with a whisper, and she kisses the flesh that is bared to her.

“You want this?” he asks.

And want is not the word, not really, but it’s not a lie to say _ yes, _ and so she does, taking him in hand, feeling the heat of him, the surety of his arousal. Things she shouldn’t have to question, but she still does—wondering if he still desires her—but she _ knows _ now. She has tasted of the fruit and holds the knowledge of good and evil between her palms. And he sighs and tangles his fingers in her hair and is still so very gentle even when she licks from base to tip, when she presses him between her lips, her hands settling on his waist.

_ “Chloe,” _ he groans, and it’s what she wants, but it’s not what she needs, and she entwines her fingers with his on the back of her head, pressing herself forward, further onto him. And maybe he _ does _ understand, now, or is perhaps simply willing to take this leap of faith with her. But it doesn’t matter when he tightens his hand in her hair, hard enough it nearly hurts, and begins to direct her motions.

She only has to keep herself up, to hold herself against him, to lick and to suck—he’s taking care of everything else—and it feels like grace to give up this control. It is this that she offers him, and this that he takes as oblation, but it doesn’t seem like any kind of sacrifice.

His other hand, which has been braced against the counter, trails to her shoulder to rest there, a benediction offered in return. She wonders how many others have come to him for something like salvation, when the heavens rang with emptiness and there was no source of glory but the soft sounds he makes when she takes him deeper, the way his fingernails catch against her scalp as he gives in to the sensation. Kneeling on the ground in less than holy prayer, a mortal to a god; but she doesn’t begrudge any of them their desire, not when this is the only thing that has ever felt like forgiveness.

And it’s not perfect, is nothing remotely immaculate—her knees are sore where they rest against the tiles; her jaw is beginning to ache. Her head still hurts just a little, and she trembles slightly in the cool air of the bathroom. But she doesn’t want perfect. She is not divine, and what they do is not holy, but there is something sacred to it that has nothing to do with Heaven.

He chokes on air, and he is close, and she knows she did this to him. Knows that she has power over this even when she has control of so little. A man died today, and it’s not her fault. She was not imbued with some sort of purpose by her creator. She doesn’t have to bring justice to victims and judgement to sinners, not here. Here, she is only Chloe Decker, ordinary human being, and nothing has ever been so comforting. He cries out with his pleasure and starts to pull her away, but this is another benediction she will gladly take. She relinquished her control willingly, and now she retrieves it, relaxing her throat and accepting what he gives her.

He tastes of a man, not an angel, and his hips jerk with the shuddering of his body as he moans, long and low and wanton, his ecstasy echoing between her own legs. He falls from her mouth with an undignified motion, and he staggers a little as he recovers, his fingers smoothing down her hair as he pants.

Her chin is a little sticky, and she is parched, and when he tugs her up, she expects a tender kiss or a heartfelt reciprocation or a hard fuck against a wall, but instead he brushes her cheeks with his thumbs, and only then does she realize she’s been crying.

He’s watching her with eyes that are dark and a little wet, and he wipes away the tears that have gathered over her cheekbones. And, still, she expects him to pull away or to push closer, but he only wets a washcloth in her sink, cleans her face, pours her a glass of water and holds it to her lips as she sobs out a bitter flood of all the things she hasn’t let herself feel.

And there are words with the flood, recriminations against the world, against God, against _ him, _ and he takes them all with the patience of eons, something he keeps in reserve but has brought out to weather the storm of her emotions. But he is not passive, is not some statue of marble to take her accusations and paint them on his flesh with the rest of his scars. He beats down her denial with his truths, and brings some light of understanding to her darkness. And he does not taint her bitterness with honey, but lets it lie in all its ugliness only to soothe the wounds it causes with his love.

And this is not absolution. He cannot pardon her sins nor alleviate her guilt. Not truly, and he does not lie. But he can pull a towel from the rod and dry her skin, can brush her hair until it shines, can carry her to the bedroom and wrap her in blankets until she is no longer cold.

It has been so long since anyone took care of her like this. 

And he does not wash away her worries, either, but helps her set them aside for the moment. Helps her forget everything but the sheets, smooth against her skin, the heat of his body when he divests himself of the rest of his clothing, the soft glow of the streetlamps through the curtains, bathing him in a mortal light purified by his immortal soul.

And this is not how this was supposed to go, but maybe it’s how it should.

Her bed is not as large as his, her linens not as soft. But everything feels so much more real with her bra hanging from her dresser drawer, with the distant rattling of the heater. With the faint glow of her alarm clock painting a more mundane red in his eyes than hellfire as he kneels between her parted thighs.

She almost forgot her desire in her fear and her anger, her sorrow and her love, but it returns full force when his tongue rolls against her clit for a moment before slipping down to press in deep. And he is as good at this as he ever promised, in a way that doesn’t feel ordinary, and she is bereft, for a moment, in the depths of her pleasure. But his hand clutches at her sheets in desperation, and his hips press to the mattress, and _ this _ is what she needed—him _ here _ and wanting and as flawed as she is.

He marks an unsteady rhythm out where she pulses and clenches, and she grips at his hair, grinds against his face, chasing her own fall. He guides her through it all, and the pressure is rising and rising, but she needs one last thing, and she doesn’t know what it is until he’s moaning brokenly into her heat and she tumbles into orgasm, mouth parted, only a gasp escaping her lips.

When he rises to drag their bodies together—chest and belly and hips and thighs—and presses a kiss to her lips, she realizes this is their first since the balcony, since Hell. And it feels right, somehow, that it is inelegant and rushed, that she can taste herself on his lips. He trails kisses down her jaw, over the scar on her shoulder, down to suck her nipples and bite at the spider webs that paint the curve of her belly. She groans and scrambles at the bedside table, searching for the condoms she bought for this purpose, for this moment.

The tear of foil breaks his concentration from where he has again settled between her legs, as if he is already missing her taste. But in an instant, he is back holding himself over her. She removes the condom from the packet and reaches down to roll it over him. She pulls lube, too, from where she has stored it, and carefully applies it, and every step, every action is another way of grounding her.

She wanted the angel before, thinking he could save her; but she knows now that the only salvation is in the sweet friction when he presses inside, is in the weight of his body against her, is in his tenderness as he waits for her to adjust.

“Please,” she says, and it is not as weighty as it was the first time she said it tonight, is not as earth shattering as when she said it on the balcony. But it is somehow more important for all of that—for one shining moment, the most important thing in the universe.

And yet it means nothing at all.

This act means nothing, after all, but itself, and yet what a thing it is. It cannot set the stars alight; it cannot set the Earth to turning. It cannot damn her virtues nor raise up her sins. It is only her, is only him, is only _ them, _ and it is all she needs.

And then he moves, and she doesn’t think at all.

There is only heat and pressure and _please_ and _more._ _Yes_ and _don’t stop;_ an easy glide and a sweet burn.

And she doesn’t have to think, because she knows in a place beyond thinking that he will care for her, that she can simply let herself _ be. _ That he can’t offer her absolution, but he will give her love. That she may be human, and he is not, but she does not drag him down, and he does not draw her up. That he may have to leave again, but he is here, now. And that’s all that matters.

And when she comes again, it is with his immortal name on her mortal tongue, but it is not worship, is no kind of prayer. He rocks against her, chasing his own high, and she brushes his sweaty hair from his brow, whispers words more profane than sacred as he slows, a joy untainted by holiness spreading across his face.

When he pulls away, no divine connection is severed. They are only them, and he ties off and throws away the condom as she dries them off roughly with an old t-shirt. She goes to the bathroom, picking up a few excedrin for the headache, and doesn’t worry that he might not be there when she returns. And he is, parting the blankets for her to slip underneath them.

He has seen all of her, known all of her, and he did not run away.

He kisses her head as she settles against him, sliding her hand over his heart to feel it beat. His hand joins hers, entwining their fingers.

“I love you,” she tells him, not in the throes of passion but at the tail end of the afterglow, and she feels his heartbeat stutter under her palm. And he doesn’t say it back, only taking her free hand with his and pressing kisses to the fingertips, to the wrist. But it’s okay. They have time.

She watches him fall asleep, his eyes falling shut, his lips parting ever so slightly. The shifting of his ribs as he breathes, the soft flaring of his nostrils. The rhythm of his body slowly pulls her under with him, and the last thing she feels before she drifts off is the slow thudding of his heart.

This is not how this was supposed to go, but she would never ask for anything else.


End file.
